Nuit de la Tragédie
by jane-eliza
Summary: Chuck, Blair, and one ruined cocktail dress. CB.


"There's a room full of guests waiting for you. Where'd you go?"

_Well I'm obviously right here, genius, _Blair Waldorf thought sourly, not even bothering to look up from where she scrubbed furiously at her brand-spanking-new Zac Posen cocktail dress. It was ruined. There was an angry, scarlet blotch marring the rich ivory; a result of one half-glass of Romanée Conti and a _certain_ _someone's_ slip of the hand.

And to think that that _certain someone_ had the cheek to question why she had left her guests downstairs. _What. A. Basshole._

Chuck sauntered over to Blair, watching over her shoulder. "Ignoring me, then?"

"Piss off, Bass," she snarled quietly, and he laughed.

"Oh, so you're not ignoring me?"

He stepped round the counter to face her with a smug little smirk that made Blair want to gouge his eyes out. But she took a deep breath, and looked back down to her gown.

"You _do_ have company, you know. They'll all be wondering where their hostess has got to," Chuck drawled, his stupid leer still fixed on his face.

'_Yes, you've mentioned that already, and guess what? I don't effing care!' _she wanted to say, right before kicking him in the groin. That'd wipe the smile off his face, for sure.

"Tell Dorota to send them home."

Chuck cocked an eyebrow. "Home? It's only ten, Blair. Surely you have other dresses."

_Brazen little basstard._

"Yes, _Charles_, I do. But this is the dress I want to wear, and seeing as it's spoiled, I can't. So they're going home."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," sighed Chuck, rolling his eyes. "Just buy another one!"

Oh, damn effing right she'll buy another one. She'll march right into Bendel's and Saks and Barneys and buy dress after dress. And then she'll pick up a few pairs of Louboutins, a couple Louis Vuitton purses, several pairs of Chanel sunglasses, and maybe even a Hermés scarf or two. All on his credit card, _of course._

Blair raised her head to look at him, expression fierce. "Go tell Dorota to send them home. _Now._"

And so off Chuck scuffled, tail between his legs, muttering something about _controlling_, _bitchy_ and _goddamn sexy…_

--

Forty-five minutes and a rushed farewell later, Charles Bartholomew Bass found himself standing by the door to the bedroom, hand balled into a fist, but too apprehensive to knock.

_Christ Almighty,_ he thought to himself, _Would you grow a pair and bloody knock already? _And so he did, albeit slightly reluctant. There was silence from the other side of the doorway, presenting a dilemma to Chuck: enter, or not. With his newly-acquired balls, he hesitantly opened the door, and stepped inside. Blair was seated at her vanity, her silk nightgown sheathed by the robe that hung from her shoulders. She caught his gaze in the reflection and her eyes narrowed somewhat, but it was apparent that her fury had calmed a good deal.

He swallowed. "Er, they're gone."

Blair's dark eyes closed, and she let out a sigh. Chuck slowly crept closer, but only made it to the armoire before her lids flew open again and locked her eyes on his.

"Well?"

His brow furrowed. "Well…?"

He noticed the muscles in her jaw clench and her nostrils flare, but she kept her cool. "Sorry wouldn't go amiss."

"…It was an accident."

Glaring, Blair gripped the hairbrush in her hand so tightly that her knuckles began to turn white, and Chuck gulped subtly at the pulsing vein in her forehead. He knew she was thoroughly pissed.

"Do you seriously think," she began, the forced calm tone of her words sending chills down Chuck's spine, "that I actually give a tiny rat's ass if it was an accident? Are you really that _ignorant_?"

He took a deep breath. "What I _meant_ to say was that I'm sorry."

"Yes. You'd sure as hell _better_ be sorry, Bass."

"Well I am. Although it was a bit of a waste of the wine… I mean, three thousand bucks a bottle? Shame."

Blair's eyes grew to nearly double their normal size. The pulsing vein in her forehead was fit to burst from her skull, and Chuck could've sworn he heard the brush crack.

"_Excuse me, Bass?!"_

"I-I… I'm sorry! So, so sorry!"

Oh, Jesus. This was it, the end. No more for Chuck Bass. He really wished he'd done something remotely exciting in his life, like shaved his head, or got a bikini wax, or grown a handlebar mustache. _Oh God, you're thinking of hair in your final moments. Why hair?! _

… _And why aren't I dead yet?_

It took Chuck a further few moments to realize that Blair was sitting perfectly still, lips pursed and eyes closed. He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

"Leave. Now. Before I do something I know I'll regret."

Although she couldn't really see how she'd regret decapitating him at that very moment in time, she had a sneaking suspicion that it might come back to haunt her.

Chuck's mouth hung open, staring at the woman in front of him in shock. "I-…What?"

"Go buy me something nice, make yourself useful or something," stated Blair, unclasping the silver bracelet from her wrist and setting it inside a small box on her vanity. "I'm going to bed."

He slowly shook his head, "You're absolutely unbelievable…"

"So I've been told," she simpered, her eyes still set in a fading scowl.

So Chuck turned on his heel, and plodded to the door. He swiveled to look at her once more, grinning cockily. "Goodnight, Mrs. Bass," he said, his previously absent audacity returning to form. "I do love you dearly."

And with a cheeky little wink, he departed. Blair ground her teeth.

_Damn that motherchucker._

--

_Eh, I don't like it much, but maybe you do, I don't know. Reviews are, as always, very much appreciated; and remember – viva la chair!_

_CJM._


End file.
